The Electric Light of 'The Wolf's Head'
by land of a thousand words
Summary: Chibs finds a perverse pleasure in getting stitches; Tara grows her hair long. AU ("canon-divergent"), post-S6, est. relationship.


Notes: _This is the sixth of 6 one-shots that I've already posted to Ao3. Originally posted 11/22/2013._

Because Chibs' face lights up when Tara does medical stuff and I wanted to write about it.

* * *

There was a clean slice across the top of his forearm, small droplets of blood leaked from the newly minted valley between his skin and he watched, with a kind of tired fascination, its unconscious journey towards the sticky surface of the bar.

_The Wolf's Head_, a rustic old pub with loyal clientele, a lingering smell of dark beer, smoke, and piss. It could have been a classy joint once, an echo of a long-forgotten era; when men arrived in suits, sat in shiny leather armchairs, and traded business cards from their shiny metal cases. The only "business card" Chibs Telford owned was a stained napkin with a phone number written hastily with an eye pencil. "T" it said above the digits, the tips of the letter elongated with a nervous flourish, an unaccustomed writing implement on the wet paper. It was old now, stained with coffee and ash, the paper no longer wet, but the texture permanently wrinkled, a watery reflection stamped upon its surface.

The number connected him to her voice, nervous no longer; but sometimes relieved, angry, or wanton. He liked to think he knew her by now, knew all the little cadences in her voice, like he knew the strange flourishes of that "T," so many letters exchanged between them from that first note, he knew by now – it had been a hesitant inscription. After the first few months the angle of her letters became straighter, the ink bolder, a confident "**Tara**" signed at the bottom; the pen in her hand had become like a sword, and her form had become impeccable, biting and sharp.

"You were a medic once, no?"

His lips quirked as he heard her voice behind him, ringing with sarcastic inflection; he turned slightly, his arm still resting against the bar, the dripping blood acting like a solvent between his skin and the old wood.

"Not so good as you, my dear."

She rolled her eyes and took a seat on the stool next to him, signaling the barman for a beer.

"You couldn't have at least put a bandage over this until I got here?"

She reached into her bag for a pair of latex gloves and gently moved his arm closer, a familiar, intense look shone from her eyes; an undaunted, assessing gaze, determining her next course of action.

"This could have gotten seriously infected, you know," she sighed tiredly, "what am I talking about, _of course_ you know."

There had been a faintly drunk evening one night, towards the beginning of their sexual relationship, wherein he had foolishly confessed to her his almost obsessive love of her medical prowess. Her surgical technique, the way she held herself in the midst of an operation, be it in hospital or on a table in the middle of a filthy, tiny cabin in the woods. He would watch her fingers, their graceful, stern movements over the bloody flesh of a brother; the chest cavity of a newborn – all confidence, the power of God coursing through her veins, and it shone from within her as a blinding light, brash and beautiful.

Never one for compliments she had blushed and stayed quiet, but it was the first time she had kissed _him_ first, initiated their tryst, and gone commandingly for his lap, her hands cradling the back of his head as she ravished his lips as competently as she patched bullet wounds.

So when there had been a small squabble with a rival MC earlier that evening, and the jagged edge of a bottle had sliced through his arm, a quick thrill had coursed within him, a vision of the lowered profile of her face, her fingers, knowing against his skin, and they had barely finished with chapel before he was out the door, the shining light of _The Wolf's Head_ burned into his brain.

The two of them had been coming there so long now they received no strange glances from the bartender when she pulled out her sewing kit; he even poured Chibs another shot of whiskey, the sound of the amber liquid filling the glass the only other noise in the empty pub, an oddly perfect accompaniment to the low droning of the television.

"Everyone else okay?" she asked, wiping the wound clean of blood, prepping her needle.

"A bit banged up, no worse than usual."

She hummed in acknowledgement, the playful, sarcastic flirting all but extinguished in the steadying of her posture, the methodically slow ins and outs of her breathing.

It didn't take long, but he watched her for every stitch, every piercing of his flesh, he marveled at her slight movement, the way the light from the tacky chandelier which hung from the pub's ceiling, played flattering shadows against her face and neck, the long waves of her hair. She had begun to grow it long after the charges against her for the murder of Pamela Toric had been dropped, and when she didn't think anyone was looking he had caught her twisting it round her fingertips while a gentle smile graced her lips. He would be physically incapable of kissing her then, and she would laugh, falling back against the pillows in delighted surprise.

"There, all done."

Another satisfactory job, the skin tightly sewn together, her stitches straight and uniform, and he glanced down at his new battle-wound admiringly.

"Perfect, as always."

She snorted, placing a bandage over the soon-to-be scar, pressing the medical tape firmly against the surrounding flesh.

"Keep it clean. And be careful next time, okay? I mean it."

He raised his hand in a mock salute, nodding his head.

"Now you're just asking to get slapped, Chibs."

Laughing, he grasped the back of her neck, tugging her lips toward his, a playful kiss quickly dissolving into a heated exchange; a sudden pushing, a slip of the tongue. There was a loud cough from behind the bar and they separated with a final, close-mouthed peck. A charmingly reluctant blush filled her cheeks and she brought a crooked finger to her lips, hiding a smile, apologizing to the bartender with a soft, "Sorry, Sam."

She started cleaning up her kit, gathering the refuse of her "operation," the resulting stiffness of her recent exertions leaving her shoulders relaxed, her face a portrait of satisfaction at another job well-done.

"Sunday tomorrow."

"Yes, it is, well done. Doesn't that mean all you good Irish-Catholic boys have church to attend?"

"I'm Scottish."

She raised a well-manicured eyebrow, elegantly but with a pointed sharpness so piercing it could have been learned from his own mother, a displeased look that practically _screamed_, "No more bullshit."

"Jax has got the boys tonight."

She sighed, a sadness now only barely discernible, when months ago it had been pervasive, an all-consuming melancholic possession that she had soon given up trying to hide.

"He does."

His hands rested comfortably against both hips, a familiar, cocky stance that he knew she had trouble resisting. There was a barely questioning look in his eyes, as if he already knew the answer to the unspoken proposition between them. She smiled at his presumptuousness, at the recognition of their familiarity. The sadness of her children's absence became temporarily alleviated at the behest of his silent implication; his pose, the touch of his hand against the side of her face, and the kiss atop her head.

He made for the exit, waving a goodbye towards the bartender, and she finally replied, her lips turned upwards in a playful smirk, "Fine, don't wait for an invitation or anything!"

He turned, winking, his leather-clad back pushing the door open and he was gone, his bike appearing only briefly in the light of _The Wolf's Head_ before he disappeared into the darkness of the parking lot.

She would follow him home, only _after_ she had helped wipe down the bar and tipped Sam (generously), apologizing again for their impromptu surgical procedure on his bar.

As she later sat, quiet and comfortable behind the wheel of her car, she thought of him sitting at her kitchen table, a cigarette resting between his fingers, a book or newspaper laid out in front of him; patiently awaiting her return.

The electric "Wolf's Head" sign, jutting out from the entranceway of the pub sputtered and went dark, and she turned the keys in the ignition, the soft purr of the engine urging her homewards, to a not so empty apartment, a not so lonely night. A soft voice crooned, unintelligible from her speakers, a brisk wind blew in from the crack in her driver's side window and she smiled, twisting her long, brown hair wistfully round her finger.


End file.
